Hi! So, I've basically been checking out the Sherlock fandom for a while now, and decided to try writing something myself. Ah, just so you guys know, this is my first Sherlock fanfic, so I'm really sorry for any OOCness or, you know, anything that doesn't make sense at all.

Note: I do not own BBC's Sherlock… Actually, I don't really own anything at all.

Enjoy!

"…We really need to start locking the door."

"Agreed."

John Watson stared down at the man that was currently curled up on the floor of their sitting room, his brow furrowing in a mixture of disapproval and restrained amusement when his flatmate bent to poke the unconscious man with the bow of his violin.

"Exhaustion," Sherlock Holmes stated flatly. "His shirt is stained with beer but it's obvious that he wasn't drunk, although he did do a lot of running based on the state of his shoes. Judging by the rough texture of his hands and the traces of sawdust on his clothes, he works with wood, although I'm not entirely sure what his profession is- probably carpentry, though. He's not married, but there is a woman in his life occasionally." Sherlock paused for a moment, his eyebrows raised in mild interest as he knelt closer to the man. "John…"

"Hm?" John tore his gaze away from the man's slack features and glanced at Sherlock, his cheeks reddening slightly when he met the taller man's intense blue gaze. "Sorry, what?"

Sherlock pouted and gestured impatiently towards the man beside him. "Call Lestrade. Tell him that we've found the man responsible for the break-in on Church Street last month, although I suspect that he already knows the gentleman's identity seeing as he's recently escaped from the Met."

"I- Wait, what? How did you-?"

"His trousers," Sherlock stated flatly. The consulting detective got to his feet and stalked into the kitchen without another glance in the stranger's direction, his lips pursed as he glanced down at the bottles and petri dishes that had been arranged on the surface of the kitchen table next to last night's take out. "Really, John, I thought I told you not to touch anything."

"How else was I supposed to make room for the take out? And what the hell do you mean 'his trousers'? What about them?"

Sherlock sighed heavily and rolled his eyes towards the ceiling, his slim fingers already moving to nudge a petri dish into its original position.

"The man has several white hairs on his trousers that match those left by Mrs. Woodson's dog. Mrs. Woodson claimed that she found the dog chewing on a bone next to her safe when she returned from her weekly shopping trip and discovered the robbery," he explained. "…John, I'm afraid that we need more milk."

"Sherlock, wait-"

The man groaned suddenly, making John jump. Sherlock glanced up from his experiment as the man slowly pulled himself to into a sitting position, his dark brown eyes flickering across the messy flat before focusing on the room's shorter inhabitant.

"Ah… 'morning," he greeted hoarsely. "Don't suppose you could make me a quick cuppa? I didn't have a chance to stomach much last night, I'm afraid."

"Of course," Sherlock replied immediately. "John?"

John glared at the detective and slowly made his way to the stove, his eyes flashing warily towards the stranger as he placed the kettle on the burner.

"…Rough night, then?" he called cautiously.

The man snorted. "You could say that, yeah. S'not every night you run through most of London."

"Indeed," Sherlock murmured disinterestedly. "And, of course, it's not every night that a man escapes from the police, is it?"

The man stiffened and glanced at Sherlock with obvious surprise. After a moment, he forced a stiff grin onto his lips.

"Huh," he grunted. "So you are as good as they say."

"Better," Sherlock snapped. "I'm assuming you knew about the risk you were taking in coming here."

"Risk?" the man repeated. John couldn't help but notice that the stranger's muscles had tensed at Sherlock's words, although the strained smile remained on his face.

"Yes, risk. You must have known that the Met came to us after your last break-in, and yet you decided to come here. You let down your guard when you fell asleep in our sitting room- don't use exhaustion as an excuse," he snapped when the man opened his mouth to interject. "You've obviously gone longer without sleep. Now: How did you know that we wouldn't call the police before you could speak with us?"

The stranger was silent for a long moment, his dark eyes locked intently on the floor in front of him. Finally, he raised his head and looked into Sherlock's intense blue-grey eyes, his jaw clenched in silent determination as he pulled himself to his feet.

"Because I've heard the rumors about you," the man said slowly. "And I've read the doctor's blog. I know that you never turn your back on a case if it's good enough."

"And you thought that your problem would be good enough to hold my attention?" Sherlock asked flatly.

"Yes," the man said simply.

Sherlock frowned then, his expression thoughtful. He glanced over his shoulder when the kettle screamed, his eyes following John as the doctor hastily prepared three cups of tea.

"John?" the detective called casually.

John Watson hesitated before looking up at his friend, his expression carefully neutral under the taller man's probing gaze. The stranger in the sitting room glanced between the two men with undisguised curiosity, his hands clenching and unclenching into fists as the two friends continued to regard each other in silence.

Finally, John turned away. Sherlock's lips quirked into something that could almost be called a smile and he glanced over at the stranger.

"You have five minutes," he stated. "Don't be boring."

The man heaved a small sigh of relief and nodded.

"My name is Jack Sheppard," he began slowly. "I work for a carpenter on Blackstock Road-."

"And I suppose you rob houses as a hobby?" Sherlock sighed, his eyes darkening with boredom once again.

Sheppard's lips twisted into a self-deprecating grin and he shrugged. "Carpentry don't pay much, you know?"

"When did you start?" John asked quietly. The doctor moved forward to hand the man a cup of tea, his shoulders lifting in a small shrug when Sheppard expressed his thanks.

"5 months ago," Sheppard replied. "A man came up to me right after I got off work, said he- said he knew what my girl did in her free time. He told me that he was getting tired of her work, said she was getting too sloppy. He told me he would keep the Met off of our tails if I would agree to take up a few jobs for him on the side."

Sherlock had abandoned his experiments by now, his attention now focused entirely on the man in their sitting room. He nodded once when John pressed a hot cup of tea into is hands, his lean shoulder braced against the wall that separated the kitchen from the rest of the flat.

"This 'girl' of yours," Sherlock said slowly. "She was working for this man when you met her?"

"Aye," Sheppard admitted. "I didn't know about it until then, although I had been wonderin' about her little trips every week or so. We had a bit of a discussion after that, if you can imagine."

"Indeed," Sherlock mused. He waved his hand in Sheppard's general direction, his eyes faraway. "Continue."

"There ain't much more to tell, to be honest," Sheppard admitted. "I agreed to work for him to keep Liz safe- that's my girl, in case you didn't know. Apparently he liked my work because the jobs kept comin', but this last job didn't suit his fancy. I think it was because of-"

"The dog," Sherlock finished wearily. "By not killing Mrs. Woodson's dog, you made a mistake. The animal wouldn't have allowed a stranger near it, but it knew who you were since your 'girl' had been working in Mrs. Woodson's home for several weeks as a maid. I'd wager that you often came to pick the girl up from work and, given that you have a fondness for dogs, probably made yourself a favourite of the creature by bringing it treats."

"Brilliant," John whispered, earning himself a brief grin from the detective.

"…Yeah," Sheppard agreed slowly, his eyes flickering between the two with increased curiousity. "Well, next thing I know, the Met's knockin' down my door and bringin' me in for questionin', said they were doing it as part of an investigation into a recent crime, but…" Sheppard's voice trailed off and he turned away, his hands clenching once again into fists.

"They accused you of the wrong crime," Sherlock murmured.

John shot Sherlock a sharp glance, only to be ignored as the detective drew closer to Sheppard, his lips quirking upwards into a semi-triumphant smirk when the other man simply stared at him.

"You weren't arrested by the Yard because of the robbery on Church Street," Sherlock said slowly. "Another man was arrested for the crime about a week ago by a new DI from Wolverhampton."

"Aye," Sheppard agreed warily. "Well, you can imagine my surprise when they haul me into their headquarters and this bloke informs me that I've been arrested for murder. I'd never even seen the victim 'til they showed me his picture. I tried to explain all this to the man who was interrogatin' me, only to realize that he's the same fella that approached me five months ago and got me into this crime business in the first place."

"Sorry, what?" John demanded, his eyes narrowing as the man's words slowly sank in. "An officer at the Met- he's the one that got you into crime?"

Sheppard nodded solemnly.

"What happened then?" Sherlock asked.

"I was shocked, obviously. Thought that I had been set up, and the idea didn't exactly sit well with me," Sheppard continued, his broad face flushed with anger. "I started to yell, tried to draw attention to myself in the hopes that someone else would come in. A few o' the other officers started to come towards us, too, only they got distracted by some commotion. Well, I figured that I wasn't goin' to get help from anyone else, so I launched myself at the bastard that was interrogatin' me before he could say anythin' else and I made a dash for the door."

"Seriously? Just like that?" John muttered.

"Really, John, it's the Yard," Sherlock pointed out. "Did you expect anything else? Please continue, Mr. Sheppard."

"I managed to lose the men they sent after me and made my way here. I figured if anyone could help me prove my case, it would be Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock nodded stiffly and rocked back onto his heels, his fingers pressed together just beneath his chin. John felt a small smile make its way to his lips at the sight of the detective's 'thinking pose', only to have the smile slip from his features as he went over Sheppard's tale again.

"…It's odd that one of the Yard could be so corrupt," he mused slowly. "You'd think Lestrade would have-"

Sherlock leapt at the television, causing John to break off in a yelp. Sheppard scrambled backwards as the detective came dangerously-close to slamming him into the floor and watched the taller man fiddle with the television with wide eyes, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Wha-?" he began.

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped. "John, come over here. Look at this."

"Sherlock, what- Oh my God."

"What?" Sheppard demanded impatiently, his eyes flickering back and forth between the suddenly-still doctor and the detective, who was now pacing the floor of the flat, his fingers flying across the keys of a cellphone before he raised the device to his ear.

John forced himself to turn away from the television set at Sheppard's question, his blue eyes dark with an odd combination of confusion and understanding.

"I think I know what caused your commotion at the Yard," he whispered before gesturing towards the television.

Sheppard frowned and focused on the headline that was now pasted across the small screen.

Fistfight Erupts in New Scotland Yard. Scandal Erupts as DI is Placed on Temporary Leave.

"I don't understand," Sheppard whispered.

"Lestrade is gone," Sherlock snapped, his expression twisting as he murmured a quick reply into the phone that was pressed against his ear. "He's been replaced."